A Most Becoming Bride
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: May 22nd, 1772. Miss Molly Hooper is to be wed to Lord Thomas Ashington- Unless, of course, her friends have anything to say about it. But will Sherlock Holmes be persuaded to do the right thing? Will Molly accept him if he does? What do you think?
1. Conduct Unbecoming A Lady

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

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**CONDUCT UNBECOMING OF A LADY**

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_The London Road_

_A Quarter Past Twelve_

_Saturday May 22nd, 1772_

Martha sighed and shifted from foot to foot, trying to ignore both her arthritis and the possibility that she might soon be arrested.

_Really, _she thought. _The things I get myself into for Sherlock Holmes… _

Above her Mrs. Mary Watson was climbing higher up the large oak tree in which she had sequestered herself, trying to get a better view of the road. The quarry they were awaiting was already running late; a small bit of carriage sabotage by Young Wiggens had seen to that.

Unfortunately for their plans however, Sir Thomas Ashton had found a replacement and set out an hour ago- _In fact, he should be rounding this bend right... about... __**now…**_

"Martha!" She heard Mary hiss from above. "They're coming!"

With rather more stealth than Martha felt a married woman should possess, Mary shuffled down the tree and dropped to the ground beside her. Like Martha she was dressed all in black, a tricorn hat atop her head and a travelling cloak about her shoulders. Like Martha, she was also sporting a pair of pistols and a black scarf which covered most of her face, rendering her unrecognisable- _Hopefully. _

And, like Martha, she was about to stop a man on the way to his wedding and relieve him of all he possessed-

_Martha rather thought she should feel worse about that than she did, but then she'd never claimed to be much of a Christian. _

As Ashton's carriage rounded the bend before them, Mary stepped onto the road and extended her pistol, her message clear.

"Stand and deliver!" She intoned in her loudest, most masculine voice. "Your money or your life, Ashington!"

The carriage sped up, doubtless about to run her over, and (as she had planned) so intent was the coachman on this task that he neglected to look at the ground in front of him- The ground into which Wiggins had so recently dug a large trench. A large, _coach-sized_ trench. The carriage horses easily jumped it but the carriage wasn't so lucky, the vehicle bouncing and then tumbling arse-first into it. Landing with a thunderous crash and a storm of ungentlemanly language.

_All in all, _Martha mused, _that worked out splendidly. _

As Mary stole forth, pistols still cocked, Martha approached the carriage's unfortunate horses from behind and unhitched them, allowing them to run off in fright. _Considering how Ashington treated the poor creatures, it was the least she could do. _She then followed her young friend to the edge of the pit, training her weapons on the coachman who was splayed on his backside in the muck of the trench.

Ashington was standing on what had been the back wall of the vehicle, glaring at Mary as she relieved him of his valuables and swearing wildly that he would see her hanged for this-

"You'll have to catch me first, your honour," Mary grinned, tipping her hat to him with an insouciant wink. "My sweetheart will thank you for these jewels you're handing over!"

"Those are for my bride!" Ashington snapped. "Today is my wedding day!"

Mary leaned over the lip of the trench and lowered her voice. "Then you'd best set about getting yourself out of there, hadn't you?" Another mocking wink. "Don't worry, m'lord, I have faith in you…"

And with that she jerked her chin at Martha, indicating that it was time to go. Both women melted back into the woods, leaving both coachman and master swearing in their wake… By the time they reached their horses even their disguises were gone…

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_Meanwhile, _

_In the sacristy of Saint Bartholomew's Church… _

"Where the devil is Ashington?" Lord Stamford fumed. "He swore he wouldn't be late, and we've been here for an hour!"

The older man looked at Sherlock Holmes, his face grave- For he knew there was worse to come...


	2. Conduct Unbecoming A Gentleman

_Disclaimer_: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

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**CONDUCT UNBECOMING A GENTLEMAN**

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_In the sacristy of Saint Bartholomew's Church… _

"Where the devil is Ashington?" Lord Stamford fumed. "He swore he wouldn't be late, and we've been here for an hour!"

The older man looked at Sherlock Holmes, his face grave- _As well it should be, as far as the detective was concerned. _

He, after all, was responsible for introducing Molly to that idiot in the first place.

"I feared he was trifling with our Molly's affections," Stamford added in an undertone, "but I never thought he would stoop to leaving her at the altar, the blackguard." He shook his head, then added more softly. "I knew he never deserved her, but to do this…"

The sigh he let out seemed to contain the weight of the world.

It sounded almost exactly like Sherlock felt.

"To do this, he would have to be heartless," Sherlock said softly. "One would have to be heartless to do Miss Hooper any harm." _And he would know, _he thought bitterly: _he'd done her more than enough harm already, with his teasing. His cruelty. His idiotic indifference to the matter of his own heart. _And then to find out that she was to be wed to this, this idiot Ashington, a man totally unworthy of her. One who wouldn't even permit her to finish her education…

_It was a thing not to be borne. _

The door banged open then, and John Watson poked his head in. "Any sign of the groom?" He asked. "They're getting restless out here."

"None," said Stamford miserably. "And when I get my hands on that blighter…"

He made the universal sign for He-Will-Die-A-Creatively-Painful-Death.

John nodded in sympathy. "The thing is, though, that there's another wedding today and the vicar wants the church back, so…"

He looked at Sherlock, the question in his expression obvious.

_Who was going to go and tell Molly that her wedding would soon be off? _

"I'll see to it- As the person giving her away, it should be me." Sherlock straightened his shoulders, preparing himself to go out and find Molly and break the news to her; she would be ruined, her reputation in tatters, and while he would be calling out Ashington as soon as he found the man, no duel would undo the damage her prospects had been done today.

The least he could do was break the news to her as a friend.

As he moved towards the door of the sacristy however, he caught sight of his brother, sitting in the front row of the church and checking his pocket watch. As usual, Mycroft looked utterly fed up with having to spend time amongst the living, and seeing him gave Sherlock an idea. A terrible, wonderful, utterly mad idea- _Which were always his best. His very, very best. _

Suddenly his heart started pounding in his chest.

"John," he said quietly, "Would you go and fetch Mycroft?"

Watson narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Why?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because I've just had an idea and I need his help to pull it off," he said. "Now off you go, chop, chop…"

He even made a shooing motion.

"My God," John muttered, "However did you and I live together and not murder one another?"

Nevertheless he wandered over. Spoke quietly to Mycroft and indicated the sacristy door. Looking disgruntled, the elder Holmes stood up and shuffled over to his brother. "What is it?" He said bluntly. "And before you ask, if you want Ashington's head you'll have to manage it yourself, I'm not going to prison for you…"

"Nonsense," Sherlock said. "I don't want Ashington's head: I want you to procure me a special licence."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Do you, now? And why would I want to do that?"

Sherlock drew himself up his to rather greater height and looked down his nose at his brother.

_It was just about the most satisfying thing he could do to him._

"Because," he said, "with a special licence, I can marry Molly Hooper today and save her reputation- Why ever wouldn't you want that, hmm?"

Mycroft's look was cynical- And far too knowing for Sherlock's liking. "So this is _just _Christian charity on your part?" When his brother didn't deign to answer that (and really, why would he?) Mycroft nodded and wearily walked out the door. With a martyred sigh he called over his favourite operative, one Lady Anthea, and bid her set out for His Grace, The Archbishop of Canterbury's London residence. She was, apparently, to procure a marriage licence, as well as a large bottle of brandy.

"The licence is for my brother," he muttered to her, sotto voce.

Anthea smiled. "And the brandy is for you?"

A flash of amusement lit Mycroft's face. "Precisely." In a thrice, Lady Anthea was gone.

With a sigh Mycroft moved over to speak to the priest while Sherlock's gaze was drawn to the back of the church, to the silhouette of Molly he could see through the frosted glass at the doors. She was pacing worriedly in that monstrosity of a wedding dress which Ashington had insisted on.

_Now for the difficult part… _

He remembered Mary's advice: faint heart never won fair maiden.

So, head up, eyes ahead, he marched out of the sacristy and up the aisle, pushing open the doors and stopping in front of Molly.

Mutters amongst the wedding guests swirled in his wake but he paid them no heed.

Molly looked up at his arrival, her eyes red with tears and her hands wringing together in her wedding gloves and for a moment Sherlock felt his courage falter, but then, _then-_

"Miss Margaret Jane Elizabeth Hooper, would you do me the honour of marrying me?" He blurted out.

He meant to be suave.

He meant to be charming.

Instead, he was, well, his usual self, which went just as well as could be expected…

"Sherlock, are you bloody joking?!"

_Well, _Sherlock mused. _It's not like I didn't think she would require __**any **__persuading… _


	3. The Most Becoming of Brides

_Disclaimer_: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mind. Final part, hope you enjoy...

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**THE MOST BECOMING OF BRIDES**

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_The Entrance To Saint Bartholemew's Church_

_Less Than A Heartbeat Later_

Sherlock was going to kill her, Molly thought.

He was actually going to kill her.

_Unless_, she mused darkly, _she gave into her current inclinations and killed him first._

After all, what else could she do when the insufferable man took her in his arms on her wedding day and asked her to marry him? Him, and not her boring, suitable, apparently honourless groom, Sir Thomas Ashington? Him, with whom she had been besotted for years and to whom Sherlock might therefore, at any time before this, have proposed marriage?

But he hadn't.

He hadn't asked.

In fact, the closest thing to romance that they had ever experienced together was one unspeakably uncomfortable quadrille when she was a debutante, and even then Molly knew Sherlock had been pestered into it by his mother._ However much he might love to dance, he hadn't wanted to dance with **her**._

Other than that, there had been nothing else; Not a kiss. Not even a lingering look. Molly has long ago had to accept the truth: he didn't feel that way about her. In fact, she wasn't entirely convinced that Sherlock could feel that way about anyone- Which was why his asking for her hand, honourable and ridiculous as it apparently was, was not something she could encourage.

She would not see him marry her for pity, she thought. That would break her heart, and his.

_Besides, her reputation might be in tatters if Thomas jilted her, but she still had her pride._

So she straightened her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. "Sherlock," she said crisply, "if you believe that Thomas has left me at the altar then I suggest you say that." A twist, an ache in her chest, but she forced the words out. "You may not believe this, but I would prefer honesty to these sorts of, of theatrics."

"What theatrics?"

He drew his brows together in a look she knew well, one hallway between confusion and offence.

The git had really just assumed she'd say yes, she thought. It hadn't occurred to him to even question it.

Once again the urge to murder him reared its ugly head.

She shook it away though. There were more pressing things to deal with. "Sherlock," she said with asperity, "Do you wish to marry me?"

His gaze slid to her bridesmaids and then away. It came to a rest somewhere in the region of her left shoulder, his hands rammed uncomfortably into his trouser pockets.

"It's not what I planned…" he hedged and Molly rolled her eyes heavenward. Prayed for patience.

"Then why are you asking?" She demanded. He said nothing and she rushed on, desperate to fill the silence with what was left of her common sense. "I mean, I appreciate your care for my reputation, but you don't need to-"

"Of course I need to!"

His eyes flashed to hers, dark and stormy, and once again flicked away.

She thought she saw him tighten his fists in his pockets as he began to pace.

"You deserve a husband who will treat you as the treasure you are," he began, the words coming swiftly, tumbling one over the other. "I always knew that that jackinape Ashington wasn't worthy of you, but so long as he was your chosen I allowed it. I made way." Again his gaze skittered to hers, and again away. Something unreadable moved through his expression.

It did odd things to Molly's heart.

"But now, now he has shown his true colours," Sherlock said, "and as such his lack of integrity gives me reason to lay aside my own…"

And to her astonishment Sherlock reached out. Took her hands in his.

With a sort of reverent, awkward affection he brought her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to each one.

"Say you will marry me, Molly," he said, voice intent. Eyes on hers.

It sent something… delicious shivering through her, the sounds of those words on his lips and said to her. _Her_.

"Why do you want me to?" She asked him breathlessly and he closed his eyes. Dipped his head.

Molly's stomach dropped in embarrassment, thinking that he would demur, but instead he nodded. It sounded like the words were torn from somewhere deep within him.

"I wish it more than anything…" he said. "I- I was too foolish to admit it before, but it has been my fondest desire these many years."

He opened his eyes and looked at her. Tightened his grip on her hands.

"Marry me, Molly," he said. "Allow me the honour of spending the rest of my life with you."

And he leaned in. Pressed his lips to her forehead.

He smelt faintly of tobacco and leather, of wild chemicals and tame dangers.

He smelt like home, Molly thought. _Home, home, **home**…_

Maybe Mary was right after all, she thought.

There was only one thing she _could_ say. "Yes," she murmured. "Yes, I will marry you. Yes, I will even do it now-"

"You won't delay?" The words sounded vulnerable, hesitant, and she nodded. Of course he wanted to do it now. Of course he hadn't any patience for waiting.

_This was Sherlock, after all._

"I will marry you today," she said softly, "if the licence is procured in time. And I will marry you any other day you choose, if the marriage licence is not ready.

You have my word, my darling, I will marry only you."

And, as he had done to her, she pressed a kiss to each of his hands.

His whoop of delight took her by surprise, though it shouldn't have. His picking her up and lifting her off her feet, spinning her about… That shouldn't have surprised her either, but it did. Moments- or days- or weeks later- John Watson came to tell them that the special licence was here, the ink not even dry, and if they were going to get married, they'd better be quick about it… "Mary and Mrs. Hudson are finally here," he said, "apparently they had some trouble with a highwayman on their way here…"

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And that is how The Right Honourable Margaret Hooper wed one William Scott Sherlock Holmes, Esquire, lately of Baker Street and more permanently of her heart's desire.

By the time Lord Thomas Ashington got to the church the happy bride and groom were long gone.


End file.
